door, the howling of the wind and the lash of rain filled the room.
At last he asked, "Suppose that you were to learn that part of the
Guard's gone over to Silk already?"
Remora's eyes widened. "Your Cognizance has--?"
"No reason to think so. My question's hypothetical."
Remora, who had much experience of Quetzal's hypothetical
questions, filled his lungs again. "I should then say, Your Cogni
zance, that should any such unhappy circumstance--ah--circumstances
eventuate, the city would find itself amongst--ah--perilous
waters."
"And the Chapter?"
Remora looked doleful. "Equally so, Your Cognizance. if not
worse. As an augur, Silk could well, ah, proclaim himself Prolocutor,
as well as calde."
"Really. He lacks reverence for you, my coadjutor?"
"No, Your Cognizance. Quite the, um, contrary."
Quetzal sipped beef tea in silence.
"Your Cognizance--ah--intends the Chapter to support the--um--host
of, er, Patera Calde?"
"I want you to compose a circular letter, Patera. You have nearly
six hours. It should be more than enough. I'll sign it when we're
through in the Grand Manteion." Quetzal stared down at the
stagnant brown liquid in his cup.
"To all the clergy, Your Cognizance?"
"Emphasize our holy duty to bring comfort to the wounded and
the Final Formula to the dying. Imply, but don't say--" Quetzal
paused, inspired.
"Yes, Your Cognizance?"
"That Lemur's death ends the claim to rule the councillors had in
the past. You say you know Patera Calde Silk?"
Remora nodded. "I conversed with him at some--ah--extensively
Scylsday evening, Your Cognizance. We discussed the financial--um--trials
of his manteion, and--ah--various other matters."
"I don't, Patera. But I've read every report in his file, those of his
instructors and those of his predecessor. Thus my recommendation.
Diligent, sensitive, intelligent, and pious. Impatient, as is to be
expected at his age. Respectful, which you now confirm. A tireless
worker, a point his instructor in theonomy was at pains to emphasize.
Pliable. During the past few days, he's become immensely
popular. Should he succeed in subjugating the Ayuntamiento, he's
apt to remain so for a year or more. Perhaps much longer. Charteral
government by a young augur who'll need seasoned advisors to
remain in office..."
"Indeed, Your Cognizance." Remora nodded energetically. "The
same--ah--intuition had occurred tome."
With his cup, Quetzal gestured toward the nearest window. "We
suffer a change in weather, Patera."
"An, um, profound one, Your Cognizance."
"We must acclimate ourselves to it. That's why I asked if young
Incus swam. If you can reach him, tell him to strike out boldly. Have
I made myself clear?"
Remora nodded again. "I will, um, strive to render the Chapter's
wholehearted endorsement of an--ah--lawful and holy government
apparent, Your Cognizance."
"Then go. Compose that letter."
"If the Alambrera doesn't--ah--hey?"
There was no indication that Quetzal had heard. Remora left his
chair and backed away, at length closing the door behind him.
Quetzal rose, and an observer (had there been one) might have
been more than a little surprised to see that shrunken figure grown
so tall. As if on wheels, he glided across the room and threw open
the broad casement that overlooked his garden. admitting pounding
rain and a gust of wind that made his mulberry robe stand out
behind him like a banner.
For some while he remained before the window, motionless,
cosmetics streaming from his face in rivulets of pink and buff, while
he contemplated the tamarind he had caused to be planted there
twenty years previously. It was taller already than many buildings
called lofty; its glossy, rain-washed leaves brushed the windowframe
and now even, by the width of a child's hand, sidled into his
bedchamber like so many timid sibyls, confident of welcome yet
habitually shy. Their parent tree, nourished by his own efforts, was
of more than sufficient size now, and a fount of joy to him: a
sheltering presence, a memorial of home, the highroad to freedom.
Quetzal crossed the room and barred the door, then threw off his
sodden robe. Even in this downpour the tree was safer, though he
could fly.
The looming presence of the cliff slid over Auk as he sat in the bow,
and with it a final whistling gust of icy rain. He glanced up at the
beetling rock, then trained his needler on the augur standing to the
halyard. "This time you didn't try anything. See how flash you're
getting?" The storm had broken at shadeup and showed no signs of
slackening.
Chenille snapped, "Steer for that," and pointed. Chill tricklings
from her limp crimson hair merged into a rivulet between her full
breasts to flood her naked loins.
At the tiller, the old fisherman touched his cap. "Aye, aye,
Scaldin' Scylla."
They had left Limna on Molpsday night. From shadeup to
shadelow, the sun had been a torrent of white fire across a dazzling
sky; the wind, fair and strong at morning, had veered and died away
to a breeze, to an occasional puff, and by the time the market
closed, to nothing. Most of that afternoon Auk had spent in the
shadow of the sail, Chenille beneath the shelter of the half deck; he
and she, like the augur, had gotten badly sunburned just the same.
Night had brought a new wind, foul for their destination.
Directed by the old fisherman and commanded to hold ever closer
by the major goddess possessing Chenille, they had tacked and
tacked and tacked again, Auk and the augur bailing frantically on
every reach and often sick, the boat heeling until it seemed the
gunnel must go under, a lantern swinging crazily from the masthead
and crashing into the mast each time they went about, going out half
a dozen times and leaving the three weary men below in deadly fear
of ramming or being rammed in the dark.
Once the augur had attempted to snatch Auk's needler from his
waistband. Auk had beaten and kicked him, and thrown him over
the side into the churning waters of the lake, from which the old
fisherman had by a miracle of resource and luck rescued him with a
boathook. Shadeup had brought a third wind, this out of the
southeast, a storm-wind driving sheet after gray sheet of slanting
rain before it with a lash of lightning.
"Down sail!" Chenille shrieked. "Loose that, you idiot! Drop the
yard!"
The augur hurned to obey; he was perhaps ten years senior to
Auk, with protruding teeth and small, soft hands that had begun to
bleed almost before they had left Limna.
After the yard had crashed down, Auk turned in his seat to peer
forward at their destination, seeing nothing but rainwet stone and
evoking indignant squawks from the meager protection of his legs.
"Come on out," he told Silk's bird. "We're under a cliff here."
"No out!"
Dry by comparison though the foot of the cliff was, and shielded
from the wind, it seemed colder than the open lake, reminding Auk
forcibly that the new summer tunic he had worn to Limna was
soaked, his baggy trousers soaked too, and his greased riding boots
full of water.